


Domestic Drabble Collection

by theskywasblue



Series: Inception Domestic AU [7]
Category: Inception
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles, originally from my Tumblr, for my domestic Inception Universe, with the pictures that were used to prompt them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tubby Time

**Author's Note:**

> Visit [the domestic!verse tag](http://buttherewasnogod.tumblr.com/tagged/domestic!verse) on my Tumblr to see all the originals.
> 
> With massive thanks to a-forger-and-a-point-man, who finds the most adorable pictures for me to work with!
> 
> You can also read a Spanish Translation by LoversByHaters [here](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9881277/1/Domestic-Drabble-Collection)

  
[ ](http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-tips/familiar-places-photos/#/baby-bath-sink_44183_600x450.jpg)

"Bah!" Charlie declares, patting his tiny hands on the surface of the bathwater. “Bah, bah!"

"Oh, really?" Arthur can’t help but grin, daubing lavender-scented bubbles into his son’s hair. “That’s fascinating. I had no idea."

Charlie squeals in delight, and flings water everywhere. The counter-top is already covered in water, and Arthur’s shirt is soaked. His bare feet on the tiles are settled into a puddle of cooling water. Typical bath-time with Charlie.

He uses the spray attachment to rinse the suds out of Charlie’s hair, and pulls the plug in the sink just as Eames comes in with the towel.

"One clean baby boy," Eames announces with dramatic flourish, scooping Charlie from the sink and planting a kiss on his forehead before wrapping him up. Then, he turns and smiles at Arthur, his face so open and fond that Arthur’s heart misses a beat. It happens a hundred times a day, it seems, that Arthur gets dizzy with the knowledge that this is his husband, and his son - his life, almost exactly as he’s always wanted it.

"And one soggy Papa," Eames chuckles.

"Well, I notice _Daddy_ didn’t bring me a towel."

Eames’ expression becomes something that makes Arthur warm down to the soles of his feet - even though Eames has a baby in his arms and stray soap bubbles smeared on his cheek. Hell, it’s probably at least partly _because_ of the fact that Eames has a baby in his arms and stray soap bubbles on his cheek.

He leans in and gives Arthur what should be a very chaste, very gentle kiss on the lips; but it doesn’t feel that way in Arthur’s brain.

"Just let me put Charlie to bed," Eames says. “And then we’ll see about getting you out of those wet clothes."


	2. Ours

When the adoption agent puts Charlie into Arthur’s arms, there’s a moment when the world stops. Arthur’s arms are shaking so badly he’s afraid he’s going to lose his grip; he puts a careful hand on the baby’s diapered backside, and another between his tiny shoulders and cradles him up against his chest, taking long, deep breaths because he feels suddenly weak from head to toe. Charlie is warm and he smells like soap and baby powder, and Arthur tucks his nose just above the baby’s ear and tries to remember what he’s supposed to do now.

He looks to Eames, for guidance, for reassurance, for anything; and Eames’ face looking back at him is just…light. Eames is wearing that wide, little boy grin of his that almost no one but Arthur ever gets to see, and he looks as amazed, and as stunned, as Arthur feels.

Finally, he steps in and puts his arms around Arthur, pulling him close so that Charlie is snug between their bodies, and just stands there, close, looking at Arthur like he’s never really seen him before.

"Oh my god, Eames." It’s hard to speak, hard to swallow. Arthur’s heart is pounding up in his throat, and it skips at beat when Charlie curls his fist in the fabric of Arthur’s shirt and sighs. “He’s…"

"He’s brilliant." Eames finishes, kissing Charlie’s temple, and then leaning over to kiss Arthur’s too. “And he’s ours."


	3. Tubby Time

  


Eames is dozing, listening to the distant hum of the shower and the music of birds outside the bedroom window, trying to decide if he should get up and join Arthur - it’s Sunday, after all, so he knows Arthur will be more than amenable - when he hears the first burble of Charlie waking through the baby monitor on the bedside table.

It’s a bit too early for feeding, but the burble still becomes a whine, and then full-on crying. Eames pushes the duvet aside and rolls out of bed, slipping across the hall an into the nursery on sleep-stiff legs. 

“What’s all the fuss, then, Charlie-boy?" He leans over and lifts Charlie easily out of his crib - amazing, really, how quickly he got over his fear that the baby was imminently breakable. Now there’s nowhere he’d rather have his little boy than cuddled in his arms - and the source of the problem is immediately obvious. Changing a nappy was never something Eames had ever pictured himself being alright with, but it’s something that must be done.

“There, how’s that?" He doesn’t bother putting Charlie’s onesie back on, just lifts the boy up and cradles him against his bare chest, pressing a kiss to his tiny shoulder. Charlie burbles happily and smiles against Eames’ cheek. Eames can feel his tiny heart beating, and it seems a shame to put him down, now that he’s so content.

“Let’s go back to bed; what do you say?" 

Charlie yawns, which is confirmation enough for Eames. He takes Charlie into his and Arthur’s bedroom, and lies down on the bed, with the baby on his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of Eames’ breath. He’s asleep within moments, and Eames lies awake, fingers stroking up and down Charlie’s spine, breath stirring the wisps of hair on the top of his head.

Arthur comes out of the bathroom before too long, wrapped in a towel, with his hair slicked back. When he sees Eames in the bed, he smiles, fond and a little embarrassed.

“Sorry," he says, “it was supposed to be my turn."

“No trouble," Eames promises, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand. 

“I could make breakfast, instead."

Eames shakes his head against the pillow, reaching over to pat the bed next to him. “Come lie down with us." 

Arthur lies down on his side, next to Eames. The motion of the bed makes Charlie open his eyes, but he closes them again when he sees it’s only Arthur. Arthur tucks himself up against Eames, kisses his shoulder, and wraps an arm around his waist. Before long, he too is trying not to yawn.

“Didn’t we have things we were going to do today?"

“I don’t remember." Eames bites his lower lip to keep from smiling, and crushes his eyes shut. “It must not have been terribly important."

“Yeah," Arthur agrees. “Probably not."


	4. Auntie

"Dammit - Mal, I’m sorry, I have to -" Arthur’s got his shoes on, not laced up, and they’re going to be late to meet Dom and the kids after their movie, but - nature calls.

"Well, hurry up," Mal sighs, making a _go on then_ gesture with one hand as she reaches for Charlie with the other. “I will hold him."

"He’s going to cry," Arthur warns, because it’s true. As much as Charlie took to Arthur and Eames pretty much immediately, the little boy has an inherent dislike of nearly everyone else - he doesn’t even like people admiring him when they go on a walk, unless he’s snuggled safe in the carrier against Eames’ chest.

"Go," Mal repeats, sounding exasperated now as he balances Charlie easily on her hip. " _rapidement"_

Arthur ducks around the corner, and books it to the bathroom, expecting to hear Charlie’s now-familiar wail of dismay the moment he’s out of sight, but it never comes. By the time he’s washing his hands, he’s moving quickly from a whole new kind of concern.

But there’s nothing wrong with Charlie at all. He’s content as can be in Mal’s arms, playing with her hat while she coos to him in French. She’s won him over as easily as she seems to win over everyone else in the world, with her easy smile and relentless charm.

Arthur takes the chance to tie up his shoes. It’s when he down on one knee that Mal must spot him, and when he stands up again, she’s quick to kiss Charlie on one plump little cheek and announce, " _voici votre père_ ," as she passes him back into Arthur’s arms.

"He’s just an angel," she smiles at Arthur, straightening her hat. “You’re so lucky."

What else can Arthur say, but, “I know."


	5. Crushed

"You’re crushing our son, I hope you realize"

Eames doesn’t even open his eyes, just murmurs something that sounds like “‘e likes it;" barely words, really - more a thick-tonged slur. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen Eames this tired, but considering he just flew to London and back for the funeral of some long-lost great aunt, over the span of only four days, he’s entitled to be a little exhausted. Arthur would have gone too, but Eames had insisted he stay home, on the grounds that air travel with a baby was an undisputed nightmare.

And the thing is, Charlie does look weirdly content, folded safely under Eames’ tattooed bicep, and not really at all like he’s being crushed. He’s running his little fingers back and forth over Eames’ arm, and he actually looks about the happiest Arthur thinks he’s been since Eames left. It’s not that Charlie doesn’t light up when he sees Arthur, doesn’t enjoy being carried and cuddled and cradled by him; but there’s a special peace Charlie seems to feel in Eames’ arms, as if he’s sure the world can’t hurt him while he’s there

Come to think of it, Arthur can relate to that, more than a little bit.


	6. Home

"I’m home!"

Silence. Eames swings the front door shut and toes off his shoes, arms laden with groceries. No answering call from Arthur is unusual - and unexpected, since his shoes are by the door, and Charlie’s stroller is tucked in the corner next to the closet.

"Arthur?"

Moving towards the kitchen, Eames hears a sound now very familiar - Charlie’s squealing laughter, under-cut by the low but joyful tones of Arthur’s voice, and realizes they must be in the back yard. Charlie has only recently discovered the sheer joy of running unhindered, back and forth through the garden; and sure enough when Eames goes to put the groceries on the kitchen island, he can see through the screen door that Charlie is doing just that - blazing back and forth on bowed little legs as Arthur sits patiently cross-legged in the grass, watching him go.

Eames pauses to watch them both - even though there’s produce and milk to be put away, it’s not like it won’t wait a few minutes - Arthur’s expression as he watches their son run back and forth through the grass is patient, adoring; it makes the sleepless nights and maddening crying jags worth it, just to see them both so purely happy.

"Oh no!" Arthur cries suddenly, falsely alarmed as he shoots his arms out and catches Charlie on a pass, reels him in, and flips him upside down - something that never fails to make the little boy laugh wildly - teasing, “Oh no, what’s happened? You’re upside-down!"

Charlie squeals and kicks, reaches for Arthur, who laughs and kisses at his grasping fingers. Eames can’t help but laugh along with them, giving himself away.

"Look, Charlie." Arthur rights their son, planting his tiny feet back on the ground. “It’s Daddy."

He lets Charlie go, and the little boy heads immediately towards Eames, who slides open the screen door and moves for Charlie and Arthur both with open arms.


	7. Cat

The cat shows up in the garden when Charlie is just learning to toddle. It’s a skinny, hungry-looking little thing, but Eames takes a shine to it immediately, possibly because it reminds him a little of himself - tough-looking on the outside, but soft-hearted on the inside.

It skitters off behind a lilac bush when Eames gets too close, but it seems to have different feelings about Charlie all together. It starts by following him around the garden - at a reasonable distance, of course, but with obvious interest.

To Eames’ surprise, when Charlie turns around and goes towards the cat, it doesn’t run away, but instead stands and allows Charlie to pat its head.

There’s an ulterior motive, of course, which Eames only realizes when Charlie dumps milk from his sippy cup on the little beast, and it grooms the bounty off its fur.

This is the beginning, as it turns out, of a beautiful friendship.


	8. Sister

"Charlie?" Arthur sticks his head into the nursery, voice a low whisper. “What are you doing?"

"Watchin’ Izzie," his son says, without looking away from the cradle. Arthur pushes the door open and tiptoes into the room. Izzie has proven to be a much better sleeper than Charlie ever was, but there’s still no reason to push his luck.

"I see that. But why?"

"Dunno," Charlie says. It’s one of many words he randomly assigns an accent to, subconsciously mimicking Eames.

Maybe, Arthur thinks, this is the moment he’s been waiting for, for the last three weeks - that first moment of upset, of sibling rivalry. Arthur and Eames had started actively looking to adopt another child around the time Charlie turned four, but after languishing for three years on waiting lists, Arthur had almost thought it would be better to give up; that the age difference might prove too much of a challenge and Charlie would see a sibling more as an interloper - or worse, a replacement - than anything else.

"Papa," Charlie says, breaking into Arthur’s thoughts. “Was I ever that tiny?"

Arthur can’t help a small laugh. “Yes. You were the tiniest baby I had ever seen. Daddy could practically hold you in one hand, and he used to carry you everywhere in a sling that your aunt Mal gave us."

In the cradle, Izzie snuffles, and kicks against the blankets, but doesn’t wake.

"Do you think Izzie likes it here?" Charlie says, suddenly. It’s not really the direction that Arthur was expecting the conversation to take; but if there’s one thing he’s learned about children, it’s that they are constantly surprising.

"I don’t know. I hope she does." It’s not something he ever would have thought of. She’s only a baby, after all, and seems content enough. It will be a while yet before she really has what Arthur would define as a concrete personality.

"I hope so too." Charlie reaches over the edge of the cradle and, oh-so-gently, brushes his fingers through the wisps of the baby’s dark hair. “I want her to be happy here, with us."

It’s strange how deeply those words hit at Arthur. They seem to crawl right in between his ribs and wrap around his heart. If he ever doubted how Charlie would adapt to having a sibling, he doesn’t anymore.

He tugs Charlie away from the cradle and scoops him up, even though he’s really getting too big to be carried now - all gangly arms and legs - and kisses him on the cheek. “Alright - time to go back to bed. You have school tomorrow, remember."

"Can I say goodnight to Daddy again?"

"You already said goodnight to Daddy. Say goodnight to your sister."

Charlie wags his fingers at the sleeping baby, and smiles. “Goodnight Izzie."


	9. Close-up

"Charlie, have you seen my phone? I’d swear it was right -" Eames stops, mid-sentence and mid-stride on his third pass through the living room, finally registering what Charlie is holding in his hand as he leans over his baby sister, who is lying on her back on the rug. “Oh," he mutters, feeling foolish. “Charlie, you know you’re not meant to play with that."

"I was only taking a picture," Charlie protests. “Here, see?"

It’s truly alarming, the ease with which Charlie can make Eames’ phone to exactly what he wants, when Eames still has trouble with sending text messages on off days. Of course, half of that can be attributed to the perils of auto-correct. The picture Charlie brings up is a little crooked and much too close, dominated by little Izzie’s deep blue eyes and her enormous chipmunk cheeks; but it’s captured what could almost be called a smile, and there’s no denying that it makes Eames’ heart miss a beat.

"You know," Eames hums, thoughtfully. “I think we ought to send this to Papa."

It’s a shame no one will be there to catch Arthur’s face on camera when he sees it.


	10. Ballerina

"C’mon, c’mon - seriously!" Arthur drums his fingers on the steering wheel and resists the urge to lay on the horn, knowing it won’t do any good; but it feels like he could honestly walk to the dance studio faster than this. Every second that ticks by, all he can think is that Izzie is _waiting for him_ and it feels like he’s going to climb out of his skin.

Finally, _finally_ , the cars in front of him start crawling forward, and he takes the first side street he hits to avoid having to creep through the accident zone, pulls up in front of the studio seventeen minutes late and takes the stairs two at a time.

"Papa!" Izzie comes racing across the studio floor in a blaze of pink the second Arthur walks through the door, and he scoops her up automatically, lifting her up to kiss her cheek and let their foreheads rest together.

"Hi, baby." He smiles, and she smiles back. “Sorry I made you wait."

"That’s okay. I knew you’d come." The blanket of her forgiveness is so overwhelming that Arthur’s breath catches for a moment. He worries, constantly, about being a good father, about somehow disappointing her or her brother, or Eames. It’s always a relief to know that he doesn’t.

"Do you wanna see my plié, Papa?" Izzie asks, pressing a tiny kiss to the tip of Arthur’s nose.

"I would absolutely love to," Arthur smiles.


	11. Perfect

She’s perfect, is all Eames can think; a perfect little baby, with the biggest, bluest eyes, and a mop of dark hair - so much more hair than Charlie, when he was small - and Eames adores everything about her, from the instant they bring her home.

He’ll never tell Arthur, though Arthur probably knows, how very much he’s missed having a baby in his arms. If he could, he would hold Izzie forever. (Charlie too, in point of fact, though he’s a bit too big for it now) and it’s the simplest, stupidest joy to press kisses to her soft baby cheeks, her little hands, her tiny, pink toes.

When she’s a bit bigger, she will probably laugh, kick out against the prickle of his stubble, and the tickling touch of his breath; but for now she only heaves little baby sighs, and closes her eyes when Eames touches the tip of his nose to hers and tell her how he loves her, how she’s his perfect little girl.


	12. Strawberry

"Seriously, Eames?"

Eames doesn’t even look up from where he’s snapping about a million pictures of Izzie, sitting on the couch, contentedly sucking on her thumb while dressed as an enormous strawberry. “You don’t think she looks adorable?”

Arthur levels a threatening finger at him, “That is a leading question.”

Eames laughs. “You can take the lawyer out of the courtroom…” but it’s still true - Arthur always thinks their daughter is adorable; how could anyone _not_?

"Come now, Arthur," Eames presses, leaning over to show him one of the pictures on the tiny camera screen - and, okay, their baby girl is damn cute. Anne Geddes eat your heart out. "There are only so many times in her life that we can get away with this."

Eames puts the camera aside, scoops Izzie from the couch, and plants a noisy kiss on her cheek, making her squeal in delight. “Alright, sweetheart?” He coos. “Just look at you, you’re gorgeous.” And Arthur has to lean in to give her a kiss on the cheek too, because - costume or not - it will always be true.


	13. Story Time

 

One of Eames’ first and fondest memories is his mother, reading to him as a child. The sound of her voice, sometimes a little rough, a little tired, what always soothing, always a comfort.

He and Arthur both read to Charlie, even when he was far too small to understand the words. The tradition continues with little Miss Isabelle.

Arthur is a stickler for reading the book from cover to cover. Charlie, who’s learning to read himself now, doesn’t tolerate any deviation from the text either. But Izzie, of course, doesn’t know any better. All she cares about is the sound of Eames’ voice - so if Cinderella runs away to join the circus or if Robin Hood is really a brave young girl, it seems perfectly normal to her.

She doesn’t appreciate Eames’ talent for voices, however. Only his will do.


	14. Cure for Tears

Eames isn’t ashamed to admit that there are times when his children drive him completely round the bend. It’s really only fair, considering some of the things that Eames put his own mother through; but that doesn’t mean he has to like it

Right now, for example, Eames is half-crippled with a headache, thanks to colic being a right bastard; and Charlie has been in a snit all day after being punished for having a row with another boy at the playground that resulted in punches being thrown and now refuses to leave his room or so much as _look_ at Eames because he feels a terrible injustice has been wrought upon him and that Eames is a terrible father for not taking his side (something that Eames is dangerously close to believing himself;) and all Eames wants is for Arthur to get home already because he would really desperately just like to have a hot shower and few moments peace, but apparently he’s caught in traffic, thanks to an accident on the freeway.

Eames is perilously close to that pit of madness in which he can do nothing but pace helplessly and try not to cry. He hasn’t descended quite that far since that trip to the hospital when Charlie was three and he had a terrible fever that wouldn’t come down; but oh, Eames is teetering. And then, suddenly, blessedly, Izzie cries herself out, lapsing into sleep.

Eames cradles her a few moments longer, afraid to put her down too soon in case she wakes up again, then gingerly sets her on the bed and makes a dash for the bathroom, in desperate need of an Aspirin. He swallows two, gulps some water, splashes some on his face, and then tiptoes back into the bedroom - where his daughter is no longer alone. Charlie is there, having finally left the confines of his room for reasons known only to himself. As Eames watches, he leans close, to give his tiny sister a kiss on the cheek, then lies down carefully beside her, tucking an arm under his own head as a pillow. Then, he looks up, his eyes meet with Eames’ and and he smiles, just for a moment. It’s the first smile that Eames has seen on his son’s face for hours; and Eames matches it with a slow, tired, immensely relieved one of his own as, from across the now-silent house, he hears the sound of the front door opening, with Arthur’s keys jangling in the lock.

 


	15. Birthday Boy

Sometimes, Arthur still forgets that he can’t turn his back on Charlie for a second. Charlie still prefers to crawl more than walk, but nonetheless he manages to be highly mobile, and he’s got Eames’ reckless love of exploration that makes him impossible to pin down. A moment’s distraction can spell disaster.

Eames is supposed to be getting Charlie ready for the party, which is why Arthur thinks nothing of leaving the back door open after he sets the cake outside - he’s only going to have to carry more armloads of stuff out, after all. He hears the phone ringing, but only once, so he doesn’t think anything of that either…at least until he turns around and sees Charlie standing on the picnic bench with both his hands buried in the cake.

He shouts for Eames, who dashes into the kitchen with the phone still in his hand. He doesn’t even have to ask Arthur what’s wrong, because it’s really impossible to miss a one year-old covered in blue frosting, wearing nothing but a diaper and a tie (which Arthur will question Eames about later, when the shock wears off)

For a moment, Eames just stands there, looking as stunned as Arthur feels; then, he breaks down, laughing, as Charlie stuffs handfuls of blue icing and cake crumbs into his mouth. “Well, darling,” he says, flashing Arthur a grin that makes it impossible to stay mad a him for more than a heartbeat. “It is his birthday, after all.”

 


	16. Puppy

Arthur feels uneasy letting Ariadne watch Charlie for the afternoon, not because he doesn’t trust her (he absolutely does) or because Charlie doesn’t like her (he _adores_ her) but because Ariadne has a puppy.

His name is Marcel, a miniature dachshund; and Arthur’s willing to admit that he’s actually fairly adorable, as far as puppies go; it’s just that Arthur has a paranoia about things like germs, worms, and Charlie possibly drowning in the water bowl. It’s all perfectly rational; or so he thinks.

Eames laughs it off, at first; until he realizes that Arthur is genuinely anxious about it. After that, he spends the entire car ride waxing poetic about his mother’s dogs and how they used to roll around in the dirt together, share food, and sleep together in a hairy pile.

(This, Arthur thinks, explains so very much.)

Nonetheless, Arthur is determined to not be one of _those_ parents - the ones who deny their children life experiences on account of their own anxieties; and anyway, he’s read that exposure to animals at a young age decreases the risk of allergies to animals in later life. So, they leave Charlie with with his “Auntie” and go to the funeral.

Naturally, Arthur’s phone is off for the entire service. There aren’t many teacher he can think of who made as much of an impact in his life as Mr. Howse did, and it’s profoundly sad to think of him being gone, even if they hadn’t seen each other or spoken in years. He doesn’t get Ariadne’s messages until after the service, when he turns his phone back on and it lights up five times in a row.

His first instinct is to panic - because so many messages in only ninety minutes can only mean some kind of emergency - but then he opens the first message and sees the picture attached.

It’s Charlie, sitting on the floor, with Marcel climbing up on his back. Ariadne has added the comment, “Someone made a friend.” After that, it’s Charlie and Marcel playing with a tug-toy, Charlie crawling after Marcel on all fours, Charlie and Marcel sitting on the couch together, and finally, Charlie and Marcel sound asleep, with the dog’s head on Charlie’s little belly.

"Told you he’d have a good time," Eames says, catching a glimpse of the phone. "Let’s leave him be a while and go get a drink. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," Arthur agrees, and Eames leans over to kiss his cheek before putting the car in gear.

 


	17. The Prettiest Little Girl

Izzie is the prettiest girl in the park.

Eames doesn’t think he’s exaggerating, either. In her smart little frock coat (which Arthur picked out, of course) and the knitted hat that Ariadne made for her, she looks positively posh; and with the low autumn light and the leaves covering the ground, how can Eames be expected to resist taking a few pictures?

Izzie’s bemused, at first, standing with her thumb in her mouth until Eames coos, “Give us a smile, poppet,” and she grins around her hand. After that, she gets into it, smiling and laughing, striking little poses.

Arthur will roll his eyes when Eames shows him, later; but he’ll smile too, at the ones where Izzie is attempting a handstand, or crossing her eyes to try and see the leaf caught in her hat.

And he’ll definitely agree, Izzie is the prettiest girl in the park.

 


	18. Mouse

When Arthur walks out of the nursery, he’s wearing an expression that very much reminds Eames of the time he stepped in a puddle and ruined his favourite pair of Italian leather shoes - the ones he had saved up to buy for an entire year.

"No," he says. "Eames - I’m serious."

"My mother sent that to us, I hope you realize. It’s a crime not to put her in it at least once." It might be a bit extreme, to use the mother card so soon, but Arthur looks so openly distressed that it calls for desperate measures

"Can’t she send Izzie actual _clothes_?”

"You didn’t complain when she was sending Charlie all those little suits and ties." Eames points out. Charlie had spent his entire first year of life as the only entrant in the "world’s poshest baby" contest. Some days, Eames had let him roll around on the rug in nothing but a nappy for hours, just because he couldn’t bear to put another sweater vest on him. "And, you have to admit, the hat is a little bit cute."

Arthur sighs, “Okay. The hat is cute.”

Small victories, Eames thinks. He’ll try the little Piglet costume tomorrow.

 


	19. First Steps

Izzie won’t walk, and Arthur is worried.

They’ve been to the pediatrician about it, and been given a hundred promises that there’s nothing wrong with his daughter’s joints, her bones, tendons, muscles or reflexes; that there’s no need, yet, to worry about her falling behind on the curve.

Izzie will stand - that’s never been an issue; she doesn’t even need the furniture to help her up anymore - but once she’s on her feet, she just sort of stops, like a tin soldier that’s not wound up. Arthur knows he shouldn’t compare, but Charlie was practically running by the time he was a year, and Izzie’s almost sixteen months and won’t even try and navigate the living room using the furniture to brace herself.

And, if the problem isn’t with Izzie, then it must be with them.

“We barely let her feet touch the floor,” Arthur laments to Eames, watching Izzie scoot her diapered backside across the living room carpet to reach her favourite blue elephant, which Arthur deliberately set far away (feeling like a complete asshole for doing it, too.)

Eames gives him a long, questioning look. “Don’t talk to me about it, darling. She’s Papa’s little cuddle-monkey, after all.”

Which is true. Izzie has always been attached to Arthur like glue; always allowed herself to be soothed more easily in Arthur’s arms. So, if the problem is him, then he has to be the solution; but Izzie is stubborn like Arthur, too, and he shatters in the face of her unhappiness like sugar glass. The final straw comes when he takes her into the backyard, and she sobs, inconsolable, when he tries to convince her to walk to him across the patio.

“Alright, baby. It’s okay.” Arthur picks her up, rubs her back in consoling circles. “You don’t have to.”

She clings to him with her little hands, hiccuping, as he carries her back inside and sets her down on the rug with her toys. Once she’s wound-down - calmly playing with her blocks - Arthur gets up to go to the kitchen for a glass of water; but he barely makes it half way, when Izzie calls for him.

“Papa!” She’s standing in the living room, holding out her hands, so Arthur goes to her. He’s surrendered; his daughter will walk in her own time, or not at all. He expects to hear her favourite new word when he reaches for her (of course, it’s “up!”) but before he can move to lift her, she takes his one hand in both of hers and holds on tight.

For a moment, all they do is look at one another. Izzie’s face is very serious, her brow furrowed, her little lips pursed. She squeezes Arthur’s fingers and takes one, then two, then three deliberate steps towards him, watching her feet the entire time.

Then she stops, looking up at him, and it’s like a challenge - pure defiance of his disbelief. Arthur just laughs, and doesn’t let go of her hand until she lets go of his.


	20. Brilliant

"Ah - sorry about this, mate." Eames flashes Yusuf his best apologetic smile as he peels off Charlie’s T-shirt, which is covered in a mess of strained peas. "You know babies."

"I don’t, actually," Yusuf replies, shaking his head. He’s still a good sport about it, though, and doesn’t pull a face at the mess as he carries the shirt down the hall to the washing machine. All those years of cleaning up at the bar and a little bit of mashed peas must seem like nothing.

"You’re in a mood today," Eames tells Charlie, bouncing the boy lightly on his hip while he fusses. "You normally like peas. Don’t get that from me." Too many of Eames’ school dinners had been bulked up by the stodgy green mess of mashed peas; just the memory is almost enough to make him gag.

He scans Yusuf’s living room for something to pull Charlie from his funk - most of what’s on display is far from child-safe, trinkets from Yusuf’s years abroad - the piano, however, is harmless enough.

"Here sprog, what’s this?" He plops down on the bench, tucks Charlie between his knees, and fiddles with the keys, just a couple of notes. He took three years of piano lessons in Primary school, but barely remembers more than basic scales. At first, Charlie seems perplexed by the sound, but once he discovers he can pound his little hand on the keys and make great, crashing noise in the process, all his woes are forgotten.

"Well, he’s not Mozart," Yusuf says when he comes back into the room, wincing at the atonal clanging.

"Oy, you watch it," Eames warns him, grinning. "My boy is brilliant."

Charlie just laughs and bangs the keys harder.

 


	21. Faster Than Lightning

They move house just before Izzie’s first birthday, which in hindsight is a terrible idea, because of the sheer volume of backbreaking labour involved with packing and transferring a four-person household containing two small children and a lunatic cat; but they need more room, because Arthur wants to be able to telecommute if he can, without having to fight Eames or the sprogs, or the cat for space on the sofa or at the kitchen table; and they hit it lucky with an open-concept bungalow close to Charlie’s school.

The first thing Eames does after they move in, is teach Charlie how to slide in his socks on the hideous tile floors that Arthur hates. They take turns, building up a running start, and skidding past the breakfast bar, striking funny poses while Izzie watches from her playpen, squealing and bouncing up and down. Eames gets her out and sits her down on the floor, pushing her gently back and forth; the soft, fuzzy fabric of her onesie is practically frictionless, much to her delight.

“Try this, Dad!” Charlie says, abruptly, scooting in behind Izzie and bracing his hands on her hips. He kicks his socks off, and then it’s easy as anything for him to run across the floor, pushing Izzie head of him as she shrieks joyfully and claps her hands in delight.

“Super-Izzie!” Charlie declares, as they loop around the breakfast bar “Faster than lightning!”

On his second pass, he releases his grip, and Izzie slides frees across the floor and into Eames’ arms, where she clings to him, giggling against his chest; and Charlie sprawls on the floor, breathless.

A house so full of laughter is a good sign for the future, Eames thinks.


	22. Soft Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No picture with this one

Arthur guards his affection

It’s not that he doesn’t feel it, or want to show it; quite the contrary - it’s only that it’s instinct at this point, to treasure the things he cares for, as if he might be punished for adoring them.

(And Eames understands, he does. He’s met Arthur’s parents after all.)

So, Eames lingers in the bedroom doorway and watches, instead of interrupting, when he find Arthur sitting on the bed with Charlie only half dressed after his bath. They’re supposed to be putting him to bed, but what’s the rush, really, compared to this?

"Who’s my smiling boy?" Arthur asks, his voice low and a little musical. "Better now, right?" He drums his fingertips against Charlie’s little belly, and Charlie laughs and kicks out at Arthur with one foot, which Arthur captures in his hand.

"What’s this?" He laughs, giving the foot a little shake. "Is this for me?" and mocks nibbling at Charlie’s curling toes, with exaggerated growls, until Charlie shrieks with laughter. Then, Arthur kisses the top of his foot, his belly button, his forehead.

"Papa loves you," he whispers, close to Charlie’s ear, like a secret just for the two of them. "Papa loves you so, so much."

In a few minutes, Eames thinks, he’ll make some unobtrusive noise, and laugh at Arthur’s startled blush, say something like  _you’re such a soft-touch, darling_ , grinning as Arthur tries to protest. But for now, it’s too perfect a moment to be disturbed.


	23. The Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No picture with this one

“What is this?”

Eames looks up from his breakfast, makes a small, guilty noise, and immediately looks back down. “Where did you find that?”

Arthur puts the small, velvet-covered box down on the table. He hasn’t looked inside – mostly because the thought of doing so makes his blood run cold – but he’s not stupid; he knows what it means. “It fell out of your pocket when I picked your jeans up off the floor.”

Eames says, “Ah…” and then takes a big gulp of orange juice, as if that might change the fact that his face is bright red. “Well…now that you’ve spoiled the surprise, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

It’s 10:32 on a Saturday morning, and Arthur is really not prepared for any of this. If only he’d ignored the box, tucked it back in the pocket of Eames’ pants, pretended he’d never seen it. If only it had rolled away under the dresser instead of coming to rest right at his feet, like a landmine. If only he’d done anything but picked it up.

Arthur takes a deep breath, pulls out the empty chair, and sits down. It occurs to him, suddenly, almost painfully, that this is  _his_  chair; the one across the table is Eames’. There is a side of the bed that belongs to Eames, a particular drawer, a section of the closet. They’ve been living together for eight months, and Arthur wonders how he never thought of it before.

“You were going to ask me to marry you,” he says. It comes out sounding a lot more accusatory than it probably should, but Arthur doesn’t think of that until it’s too late.

“I still am?” Eames says, though it sounds like a question. “Obviously you don’t have to say yes.”

“What makes you think I’m not going to say yes?”

Eames clears his throat, and gestures vaguely with his orange juice.

“I’m going to say yes,” Arthur says, firmly, though he hadn’t actually decided until that exact moment what his answer would be. He’s well-practised in hypothetical scenarios; he just never entertained this particular one before, because – well, because he’s an honestly intolerable person to be with sometimes. He works too hard, too long, and too personally; he snaps like an angry dog when he’s tired or stressed; he gets picky and bent out of shape about all the wrong things.

But now – now that he’s thought of it, now that it’s a possibility, he wants it.

Arthur could walk through the apartment and pick out the things that are Eames’, the things that are his, but the truth is, it’s all  _theirs_ , and he likes it that way.

Eames is quiet for a moment before he flashes Arthur the smallest of smiles. “That’s very comforting.”

Arthur is silent, chewing the inside of his lower lip for what feels like a year. Eames picks at his breakfast with his fork and doesn’t say anything.

“Well?” Arthur prompts at last, drumming his fingertips on the table. “Just ask already.”

Eames laughs. “I had something rather more romantic planned the occasion.”

“I might change my mind before then.” The truth is, Arthur thinks that he might lose his nerve, which is something entirely different.

Eames reaches across the table, scooping the little box into his hand as smoothly as pickpocket. “I’d better snap you up while I have the chance then, shall I?”

Arthur presses his palms to the tabletop because he thinks they might be shaking. He watches Eames flip open the top of the box, and pull out a simple, silver band, rolling it across his knuckles and back, like he does with the novelty poker chip he carries around in his pocket for good luck. Then, he holds it out to Arthur, between his thumb and forefinger, his smile huge, but nervous around the edges.

“Well, darling – what do you say? Marry me?”

Arthur snatches the ring out of his hand and leans across the table to kiss him. “Of course I will, damn it.”


	24. Twenty-seven and a Half

"Eames, would you - you’re supposed to be getting her dressed for God’s sake.  Your mother’s plane is going to be on the ground in -" Arthur yanks his hands out of Izzie’s diaper bag to look at his watch, while Eames continues squishing their daughter’s face into increasingly ridiculous expressions.  "Twenty-seven and a half minutes."

"Did you hear that, Poppet?" Eames laughs.  "Twenty-seven and a half minutes.  Your papa’s very precise, he is."

Arthur yanks the zipper on the diaper bag closed and rounds on Eames, a long lecture ready on the tip of his tongue; but seeing Eames sitting there, with Izzie balanced in his lap, it all just falls away, unexpectedly.  Eames has Izzie balanced against the length of his arm, one hand cradling her tiny head, and to anyone else it might look like she could fall free at any moment, but Arthur knows that hold; the effortlessly natural way Eames curls himself around the baby like she’s meant to be there.  She’s safer in his hands than anyone else’s.

"Something the matter, Darling?" Eames prompts, when Arthur’s heart-struck stare goes on just a little too long.

"No - uh - no."  Arthur clears his throat, gives Eames a smile.  "You look good.  That’s all."

Eames blushes, looks down when he smiles, which only makes Arthur love him more.  “Alright, Poppet,” he says to the baby.  “Let’s get you dressed, then.”


End file.
